Difference of Opinion
by Dr. Cat
Summary: Sometimes a highly advanced AI and a fun-loving lone crusader aren't on the same page and sometimes they are. Just a few short moments between these two that came to mind.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own nor did I come up with Knight Rider or the characters mentioned in this story. They were created by Glen A. Larson and are copyrighted to NBC/Universal.

**Difference of Opinion **

"Yippee!"

Another loud shout from someone having a little too much fun and another reason I wish Michael would have chosen a nice drive by the coastline instead of a stop by the local bar for his entertainment needs tonight. However, he told me he wanted an 'exciting' evening, so here we are. For me, a performance by the symphony orchestra in town would have been interesting, but Michael said that would only be interesting if the string section was on fire and the conductor was being launched out of a cannon. Really Michael? I would think the man would rather have peace and quiet; Heaven knows we've had enough stimuli over the last five days.

Anyhow, this leaves me stuck in another parking lot for another few hours with another crossword puzzle when I'd really rather be home. It's not often I feel this way, but sometimes I just want the sanctity of my garage and the sound of familiar voices. Michael calls it homesickness and by its very definition I would have to agree with him. The trip through Mexico City had really done a number on my circuits and nothing would be better than Bonnie's attentions; nothing . . . Well, back to solving the 'brainteaser'. Mm, a five letter word meaning appalling in nature or unconventional; can't be awful or nasty and it can't be queer or droll either . . .

I hope Michael goes home after this. It really is getting late and we could both use the rest. He's been talking to that blonde lady for quite a while now though . . . Oh well, back to the crossword . . . What is this? I have access to every word known to the English language, not to mention four thousand other dialects, why can't I get three across?

What if he asks her to accompany him? He's been known to do that. We could be out here another five days; maybe even the weekend too! I don't think I'm going to make it. Please stop talking to her; please. Who cares if she's originally from Phoenix!? Alright, I shouldn't be prying, back to the puzzle. It's not gross or weird and it's not crazy or silly.

What if Michael wants to go back to that town like he said? Another week surrounded by nosy tourists, smelly dogs and choking dust. I can't take it?! Five letters; maybe it's wacky? No. Nutty? No. Flaky? No! Kooky? Uh, NO!

"Kitt?"

"What!? I'm not taking you to Acapulco again!" I shouted in response to the familiar voice of my partner. His confused face startled me. I can't believe I said that out loud. Did he hear me?

"Huh? Acapulco? What, you didn't like it there? I thought it was a lot of fun, minus the being on a case part," Michael said nonchalantly as he opened my door and sat in his seat. He did hear me, but he didn't sound upset by my outburst and that woman wasn't with him either. Good, because now I could inform him of why I wouldn't take him back.

"Didn't like it; that's an understatement Michael. You didn't have to wait out in the streets with all the traffic, animals and grime not to mention police officers trying to ticket you every ten minutes just because of the plates. Then there was the three thousand three hundred and twenty-two mile 'drive by the seat of your pants' trip there and back."

"Okay, okay, buddy. I'm sorry it was that bad for ya," Michael said, sounding genuinely apologetic. I didn't mean to come across as so irritated . . . well, maybe I did, but I didn't want it to cause Michael to feel guilty. It wasn't his fault we had to go to Acapulco. Maybe it was time to change the subject.

"Are we heading back to the Foundation?" I asked with what I hoped was a lighter tone. It must have been, because Michael smiled as he started my turbine engine.

"Yes we are," he said, waiting a beat before continuing, "Sounds like someone's feeling a little homesick."

I decided to remain quiet on that note as we pulled out onto the main road. It was strange how he seemed to be able to pick up on my non-existent 'feelings' all the time. I'll admit, I want to be home and that might be the definition of homesickness, but I was not 'feeling' homesick. I'm a computer after all . . .

"The answers 'whack' by the way," Michael said off-handily. It was my turn to be confused.

"What?"

"The crossword you've been working on. It's on the screen here; three across is w-h-a-c-k; whack," he said again. My crossword, right. How did he arrive at that answer?

"According to the dictionaries I have on file . . ."

"That's just it buddy. I don't think they used your run of the mill dictionary. It's slang."

"Slang? What kind of world are we living in when crosswords take their cues from colloquial speech?"

"Today's world I guess."

"Besides, wouldn't it be 'wack' without the h, considering slang's origins?"

I must have said that with a little too much sarcasm, because Michael responded defensively.

"You're just upset I got that when you've probably been working on it for hours."

True as that last part may be . . .

"Hardly. I'm not upset, just happy to say good bye to the Tiki lounge, that's all."

"Hey, that Tiki lounge just so happens to sell the best chili around," Michael defended, jabbing a thumb back at said location. I so had a comeback for that, but should I . . . its kind of uncouth . . . I can't resist the opening.

"Yes, I know. You ate enough of it to soon be talking out the other end."

"Where'd you pick up an expression like that," Michael said, sounding awfully surprised; as if he's never used such crudeness before.

"From those off color radio talk shows you enjoy so much," I said meaningfully. Maybe he would stop listening to them after this.

"Great, just don't talk like that around Bonnie. I think she sees me as a bad influence on you," he sighed. Newsflash: I know she sees you as a bad influence on me and she may be right, but it's worth the risk . . .

Mm, speaking of Bonnie, I wish we had gotten back to the Foundation a few hours ago. She's scheduled until six on 'normal' days, though she usually goes home around nine. She's one of the hardest working people I know, next to Devon and Michael of course . . .

It's already ten now and we're still another hour out. It's going to be another lonesome ten hours in the garage until she comes back at nine . . .

The other assistants will be there at seven, but they normally see to the facilities needs not mine, which is only right; someone has to look after those things . . .

I guess I'll just go into standby until morning. I'm sure Devon is turning in by now and Michael will definitely want to, well, hopefully he'll want to do the same. But perhaps . . .

I mean Bonnie's been known to burn the midnight oil, she may still be there and then . . .

"You've been quiet for a while," Michael said abruptly, interrupting my thoughts. He had his right hand on the steering yoke and supported his head with his left; elbow propped up on the armrest. He was getting tired, I could tell. His vitals showed a heart rate of sixty-five beats per minute, a body temperature of thirty-six point seven degrees Celsius and a breathing rate that was becoming regular and slow.

"I was just thinking I should take it from here. Allow me, Michael," I said. He gave a short nod and relinquished control as I switched to the auto cruise mode. He didn't lean his seat back as I had anticipated, but instead regarded my voice modulator with what could only be described as an idiosyncratic smile; it was uniquely Michael's.

"You know, you only became quiet when I mentioned Bonnie," he said with a yawn. What was that statement supposed to mean? But in reviewing our past conversation, I found he was right. I started thinking about Bonnie and her company and being home, but I also thought about Devon and the assistants; just not as much as . . .

"See, you did it again," Michael pointed out with that same smirk.

"I suggest you get a start on your rest. We still have another twenty minutes before we reach the mansion," I stated, hoping the change of subject would have him let go of whatever he was getting at. I can't explain why, which also troubles me, but the topic was sort of embarrassing.

"Okay buddy, I understand. Wake me before we get there, okay," he said, finally leaning the driver's seat back, "And Kitt?"

"Yes, Michael."

"I miss her too."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own nor did I come up with Knight Rider or the characters mentioned in this story. They were created by Glen A. Larson and are copyrighted to NBC/Universal.

Author's Note: Because I couldn't resist writing another one. Enjoy

**Fall**

It's not that I dislike autumn; rather the opposite. I enjoy the slightly cooler temperatures and crisp fragrance of fading foliage in the air; I even like the excitement brought on by football season, though I will never admit that to anyone, particularly not my friend, Michael. I also like the decorations people put out and the festive events the Foundation puts on, not to mention the fact I'm driven around more with my top down in my stylish convertible mode; again, something I will by no means announce to anybody, especially not Michael. However, there is one serious drawback to this time of year and, thanks to my partner's incurable habit of doing so, I'm parked right under it now; deciduous trees.

Fall literally means fall in their case. I've informed Michael several times that I hate being on the receiving end of aerial bombardments, but somehow I always end up in the middle of a barrage of leaves, twigs, acorns and sap. Michael always apologizes, saying it's some hardwired practice he possess due to years of owning a dark colored vehicle in Southern California, finding shade. I remind him constantly that my molecular bonded shell and advanced cooling system prevents any difficulty with heat even in my basic black form. I remain cool to the touch even on the hottest of summer days. Mm, summer; now there was a season trees were no problem . . . but summer is gone; it's autumn now and I'm under a tree, again.

Judging by the other unfortunate vehicles parked around me, migrating birds seem to be another problem, one I'd care not to deal with; disgusting. This reminds me of that one time at the beach. Leave it to Michael to find the only place along the L.A. coast where seagulls actually eat the aquatic life instead of flocking to the garbage around the boardwalk. I was covered in fish scales, seaweed and who knows what else. It took a full wash and wax from the technicians to get clean and I still can't get that smell out of my olfactory sensor's memory. Well, perhaps summer had its drawbacks too. Either way it's still going to take another wash to get all this 'fall' off.

Maybe Michael did this on purpose; a way of getting back at me for winning Super Sprint five times in a row. No. Michael may not appreciate losing but I haven't found him to be vindictive, much. He never accuses me of cheating in any case, though I know he feels I have an unfair advantage. It's not my fault I'm so apt at playing computer games, or most games for that matter. I prefer puzzles myself, though a good game of chess is an amazingly enjoyable treat. Michael usually finds a treat to involve a pair of golden arches and the aroma of fried food, the wrappers of which are still littering the back seat. Mm, I wonder if Micheal's any good at playing 'where did I park my car', because if another acorn bounces off my windshield . . .

"Kitt!"

That's Michael! He sounds like he's gotten himself in trouble of the angry boyfriend variety. I told him the waitress, who also happens to be our informant, was already engaged with the restaurant's manager.

"I need ya buddy!"

You most certainly do; that man chasing you must be on a stringent exercise regiment to have biceps that large. Oh well, duty calls again I'm afraid.

"I'm on my way!"

I execute a quick retreat from the shady parking space, kicking up leaves and acorn shells in my haste. I circle around the lot, making it to the front of the establishment in three point five seconds; about two seconds before Michael burst through the entrance. I swing open my driver's side door for my terrified partner, who practically dives into the front seat, and secure it shut before the manager reaches for it. The angry man rages at not being able to get at his quarry and if it weren't for my MBS, I surely would have had a dent in my front left fender at the force of that man's blow, but instead the poor fellow will be nursing a bruised heel.

"Let's get out of here," Michael says with a grimace. He instinctively slams his foot on the acceleration petal and grips the steering yoke while I automatically relinquish control of the car to allow him to drive. He takes us out of the parking lot and onto the main road amazingly fast, considering it is lunch hour traffic. I take the opportunity to scan his vitals and make sure no real damage is done. Outside of some red marks left behind on his right shoulder where he was most likely grabbed by our outraged pursuer, he appears alright. Honestly though Michael, you need to be more careful and considerate; after all . . .

"I did tell you she had a boyfriend."

"Could have warned me he was working close by there, pal," Michael shoots back defensively. Do we _really _need to go into this?

"Didn't I?"

A deliberate, defeated sigh from my partner; score one for good old perspicacity.

"Yes, you certainly did. Now, I need you to tell me something else. What do you know about our E. B. Tyler?"

I instantly access the updated databanks Bonnie installed this morning and pull up a whole host of information about the subject in question from birth date to business ventures to traffic citations. Bearing in mind Michael wasn't specific in his request (and rarely, if ever, is), I have four options really: remind him that I'm not a mind-reader and ask for clarification, try and cipher out what I think he needs and deliver it with a touch of sarcasm to remind him I'm not a mind-reader or the politer versions of these two. Why not all four?

"He's a fifty-seven year old Caucasian male with several investments in phosphate mines within the area; ones he seems intent on selling. He also owns a private jet and two homes, one down Highlands Blvd. here and the other in Rhode Island. He's been accused of money laundering in the past, but never formally charged and he enjoys fishing on the weekends. Would you also like the name of his dentist and barber or would you care to be more specific? I'm a computer, not a psychic Michael."

My partner rolls his eyes. He always reacts with such dramatics when I simply point out the facts; juvenile and yet, somehow, endearing.

"Could have fooled me," he says offhandedly. Did I say endearing? I meant exasperating.

"I beg your pardon."

"Forget it," he says quickly; a command I am programmed not to ignore, "How about telling me what the E and B stand for?"

"Eric Bailey. He seems to prefer the name Tyler, however, as that is what shows up on most of the documentation."

"Does he have any foreign accounts?"

"Yes, unnumbered Swiss accounts. But that isn't always unusual for a business man."

"I don't know; something about the way he talks about his own company bugs me. Does he have any other investments?"

"Quite a few, but he holds a substantial amount of stock in Adsol Industries while placing very minimal investment in the Tyler Corporation by comparison. He sold his own companies stock yesterday around midnight however."

"Adsol? That's their biggest competitor. So that's the rub! Tyler is planning to fold his own company in favor of a buyout that will make him billions and cost his clients and employees everything. Kitt tell me again what the Tyler Corporation actually does?" Michael says, sitting up a bit straighter in his seat.

"It claims to help strengthen existing business through the retraining of employees and installment of better communication software devices, i.e. phones, networks and computers."

"Now, how many clients do they currently have? Show me on the screen," Michael asks with an enthusiasm I know so well. He's on to something, but I'm failing to see the connection.

"There are two-hundred, Michael. But why do you ask?" I say bringing up the list of clients on my monitor so he can see the names and addresses. He looks over at them and furrows his brow in concentration. Suddenly, he grins and points at the display.

"That's why. Kitt, how many times does Grant Smith show up in the clientele list?"

I do the search and find, to my astonishment, that the name Grant Smith shows up five times in different variations. How could I have missed that? Placing that inquiry in my memory banks for further analysis later, I quickly run a scan on all the other clients and find that they too repeat in the system or worse yet, could not exist. I whittle it down and find only forty individuals among a gulf of duplicates and counterfeits.

"Michael, that name shows up five times. It's the same person and that's not all. The whole list is compiled of forty names being repeated in slightly different ways while most of the others are fictional."

My friend's face lights up with even more eagerness, the answer in his eyes. It's the excitement of the 'aha moment' and I love it.

"I knew it. This is just one big investor's scheme. He bolstered the number of customers he has so more people would invest in his company and in turn made it look worth having by Adsol Industries. He's not only going to rip off his own, but the competition as well. He can't plan on staying in the country after this. Kitt, tell me does he have any travel arrangements?"

"Indeed he does, Michael. Two plane tickets out of LAX for Paris. Booked for Friday morning at eight," I say, surprised by his prediction. I always find it fascinating how he is able to take several pieces of information and foresee a peculiar event related to them. It never fails to amaze me; now if only he could remember not to park me in the shade during autumn.

"Two? Who's he taking with him?" he asks, genuinely puzzled. Ah, the human mind can still leave much to be desired. I suppose this is where my ability to never forget aids him most.

"Silvia Wilcox, the assistant who so 'thoughtfully' aided us in finding that abandoned office building ready for demolition," I say with no hidden amount of contempt. I really didn't like her from the beginning but add in the fact she tried to kill my partner . . .

"Oh yeah, how could I forget," Michael says with equal disdain, before his face grows thoughtful, "I wonder why he's taking her?"

"I doubt it's for companionship," I mutter quietly. Michael laughs.

"I doubt so too, buddy. She's not exactly his equal, though obviously she's willing enough to do anything for him," he says, making a left hand turn at the light. He was taking us back to the hotel Tyler was staying at. I thought back to our morning meeting with Silvia and recalled one abnormality I never thought to bring up. Actually it was more like I hadn't gotten a chance to share it because Michael was too busy chasing down leads and I was too busy making sure we didn't blow up.

"For a receptionist, she certainly was wearing a lot of expensive jewelry," I say pensively.

"You mean it was real!?" Michael asks; stunned most likely the feeling he's projecting.

"Yes, well it definitely wasn't rock candy hanging around her neck, Michael. She was wearing at least forty thousand dollars worth of diamonds in the necklace alone."

Michael suddenly slams on the breaks and turns the wheel dramatically to the left, for a neatly performed, but hair-raising one-eighty. Of course, no other vehicles or pedestrians were present, but still. My CPU can't help but spin with the abrupt change. What's going on? He pushes down on the accelerator and we take off in the opposite direction. Before I can compose myself to ask he quickly says:

"Check the reservations on the plane tickets again. Look for cancellations or changes."

I do so as quickly as I can. Two adult tickets; Flight 8346; American Airlines; business class; 800am . . . wait . . . Changes; Flight 2569; Pan Am; coach; 2pm today!

"Michael their flight leaves in thirty minutes!"

"Get me Devon. This is going to be a close one!" He exclaims, clearly heading for the airport. As I dial up the functions to get in touch with the Foundation I am grateful for two things; such a first-rate, knowledgeable friend as Michael and the treeless state of the Los Angeles International Airport's parking garage.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own nor did I come up with Knight Rider or the characters mentioned in this story. They were created by Glen A. Larson and are copyrighted to NBC/Universal

**Dog Whisperer, I am not**

_ Bark! Bark!_

A small black and white dog darted between a young Caucasian woman's legs and out the side door she had just opened; an annoyed breath of air through the woman's lips escaping as well. Judging by the look of frustration on her face, experience taught her nothing could stop the Jack Russell terrier once he spotted something of interest. It appears to be a squirrel this time. Her black hair swirled around in the November wind and her black eyes narrowed as she walked out to the end of her driveway, black high heels clicking on the concrete. It appeared she was just getting ready to go to work, dressed in her grey pants suit and blue blouse.

"Emerson, get back here!" she shouted half-heartedly as if knowing it wasn't going to work. The dog was obsessed with barking at the tree he believed the bushy tailed rodent resided in. A neighbor clad in a green robe was in the act of getting his newspaper when he spotted the scene.

"Hey Cheryl! He got out again didn't he?!" the older man called out.

"Yeah Carlos. You'd think I'd learn to check behind me by now," Cheryl said with a half smile. Her accent indicated she was from New York originally, nothing strange for the tourist state of Florida, but indicative of a recent move.

"Well, at least he stays in the area. See ya later," the man voiced as he walked back up to his home.

"Come on Emerson let's go," Cheryl scowled coming up behind the pooch. However, just as the Jack was within her reach, he bolted to her right; away from her and towards the busy road at the end of their street. A look of horror spurted on her face.

"Emerson! NO!" Cheryl shouted as she began running down the road as best she could in heels. Whatever had possessed the dog to pursue that direction was still in effective, because the animal showed no signs of stopping and neither did the morning rush hour traffic. Cheryl's heart was pounding in her chest, breathing in rapid gasps, anxiety rising. She obviously loved that little dog. It was understandable being she was single in a new apartment, at a new job in a new state with only her little buddy to always make it better. Now her canine friend was a full forty yards away from her heading towards his demise. "Please God, no."

Just as Emerson's front paws hit the threshold that would have certainly carried him over into dog heaven I whistled. It caused him to stop and turn around. As Cheryl drew closer she seemed amazed to see me parked at the end of her street, swinging open my passenger door and whistling for her dog. I could tell what she was thinking. She'd never seen this strange Trans Am before, but was extremely grateful it was here today as her dog made a beeline for it. I figured, like most dogs, Emerson loved to go for rides in the car and would drop anything to do so. Cheryl ran up to me and scooped up the Jack as if he would vanish any moment. She leaned in ready to give the 'driver' her heartfelt gratitude no doubt, but found no one; the cabin was empty. Just a brightly lit dashboard, tan plush seats and myself.

"Who whistled? Who opened the door?"

"I could answer that for you, but I have a feeling you wouldn't believe me," I said; a voice from seemingly nowhere. The woman backed up from the car as her dog barked. I shut the door slowly, anticipating her to keep her distance and start hammering me with fearful questions, but instead she stopped and placed a calm hand over her dog's muzzle. The canine instantly silenced; obviously a well practiced command shared between them.

"I don't know what I would believe at this point, but I know if you weren't here to save Emerson's life I don't know what I'd do. Thank you. Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked with a soft smile. I sensed a familiar warming of my systems; a sign I was encountering unreadable data again. It wasn't an overall disconcerting sensation, just uncomfortably present. Logically, I had to reason it away.

"No, I'm just glad I could help. I'm sure anyone in my position would have done the same thing," I said matter of fact.

"Maybe, but it's not every day you meet up with a talking car who rescues animals."

"I can't argue with you there," I stated thoughtfully. Technically, I wasn't supposed to respond to anyone. I'm to remain a Top Secret item of FLAG's unless otherwise directed, but I don't think this woman is about to go run and tell the whole world. For one, who would believe her and two, she didn't seem the sort. Anyhow, I am curious about something. "Emerson is a very unique name for a dog. Do you mind me asking what made you pick it?"

"Not at all, it's actually kind of funny. He was a gift from a friend in New York. He had been the runt of the litter and they hadn't been able to sell him so I took him. At first I didn't know what to name him, but he loved the sound of my vacuum cleaner whenever I pulled it out. He would try to crawl up on it and sleep or scratch at the closest door for me to pull it out. One day I just called him my little Emerson and it stuck."

"That is amusing in a way."

"Well, my names Cheryl . . . I can't believe I'm introducing myself to a car, but what's yours?" Cheryl asked shifting Emerson from her left arm to her right. Adults didn't usually ask me my name; children naturally, but not adults. This was a dilemma. Normally, I wouldn't formally introduce myself unless Michael gave me expressed permission to do so, but it would be rude of me to ignore her question, considering she meant no harm. I presume an informal introduction would be fine.

"Most people call me Kitt."

"Well Kitt, thanks for everything and if you or . . . whoever um . . ."

"Yes, I do have a driver; he's just not with me at the moment."

"Oh, good. Well, if you, or your driver, ever need anything, just ask. I live up the road here. In fact, I just moved in a couple months ago from Rochester. Um, I'm actually going to be late for my new job so please excuse me. I have to go," she explained as she turned and hurriedly made her way back up the street.

I watched as she made it to her home and ushered the little dog inside, before she walked to her grey sedan in the driveway. She glanced back in my direction and then climbed into her vehicle. I heard her turn over the engine and drop into reverse gear, pulling out of her property and onto the road only moments ago she had been running scared on. As she pulled up to the stop sign I was near, she waved at me. I flashed my scanner to imitate her gesture and a bright, genuine smile lit up her features. She pulled out into traffic and I watched until her car disappeared from my range. I couldn't help but hope she had a wonderful day to offset such a troublesome morning.

Speaking of bothersome start ups, I wonder how Michael's getting along with our new client in there. Miss Rinehart didn't seem all that receptive to my partner's overeager charms earlier and it is her testimony we need to break this case as they say. Suddenly, I heard the door to the residence I was parked in front of open and Michael stepped out. He had a smile on his face. No surprise there considering our client was young and attractive, but the mischievous flicker in his eye alarmed me. What was he up to?

"For a guy who yells at them for even sniffing his hubcaps, you're a regular dog whisperer," he grinned at me, placing a hand on my roof.

"Well, I certainly couldn't let the little guy run out into traffic. They may shed and smell and have questionable taste in food, but they don't deserve to be run over," I said calmly, though my defensive position on my actions was palpable. I'm not a dog lover by any means, but I don't hate them. In fact I like dogs when they mind their manners. Michael just shook his head, giving me a meaningful look.

"I know. Good work buddy," he said while opening the door. As he climbed into the driver's seat I couldn't help but wonder . . .

"I thought you were talking with Miss Rinehart; how did you even know I helped the little _fur-ball_?" I asked with just enough disgruntlement on the word to dispel any notion of this dog whisperer business. Michael's smile seemed to grow bigger.

"We heard all the commotion outside and looked out the window and there you were helping to save the little guy. You have to admit that you do have a way with animals."

"I don't have to admit anything except that I'm curious if you got the information we needed to start the case?" I asked, hoping to bring the conversation to our primary mission. He nodded with a frown, starting the vehicle and placing his hands on the steering yoke.

"Yeah, were heading to the South Florida Botanical Gardens. Plot me a course to USF," he said with weakened enthusiasm from what he showed just a few seconds ago. I was somewhat baffled and concerned by his sudden change in mood.

"What's the matter Michael?"

"Nothing, buddy," he said before pausing; whether to collect his thoughts or weigh his options, I couldn't tell. Then he continued. "I just don't feel like talking to a bunch of university professors about the ins and outs of plant life, that's all."

I rolled his statement around in my processor for a moment. In the past I would have mistaken his lack of zeal over the prospect as just another example of his blasé attitude towards cultured experiences, but now I understood it as the trepidation it was. He didn't want to be surrounded by people, possibly very evil people, who he felt were at . . . an intellectual advantage. This was a rather unfortunate self assessment by my driver; I believe Michael is a brilliant individual in his own right. However, in this case, it may be best to play down his anxiety with my earlier axioms, or at least I hope this is the best approach.

"Don't worry Michael, it won't be that tedious and who knows you might find it interesting. Besides, I'll be with you. I could give you a virtual tour of the whole 7 acres before you go in if you like," I said, seeing the small smile pull at the corner of his mouth, "The plants are arranged by their geographic, taxonomic and cultural needs to demonstrate how their specimens are related to one another. They even focused on climate themes, like the desert, aquatics, Mediterranean and tropical. They also have a section dedicated to the animals that inhabit these . . ."

"Okay, okay," he said with a full grin, "If you say it's alright, it's alright."

Mission Accomplished.

"I say it's alright," I reply with confidence, until I notice the impish gleam in his eyes again. I add with my own brand of hesitation:

"And?"

"_And_, if I just so happen to run into any more of our canine friends, I'll know just the animal charmer to call."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own nor did I come up with Knight Rider or the characters mentioned in this story. They were created by Glen A. Larson and are copyrighted to NBC/Universal.

**Snow**

It's cold; too cold; like 60 degrees too cold. Negative two degrees Celsius is not my idea of safe operating conditions. In fact, this is the first time I have ever been in these kinds of conditions. This weather's not fit for man, beast or machine. Well, maybe I should qualify that statement. Certainly there are some people, creatures and equipment able to acclimate to colder environments but, for heaven's sake, why did Michael have to be one of them.

We could have been enjoying a nice December afternoon cruising around the ice free streets of Los Angeles, soaking in a sunny seventy-two degrees. Instead, I'm parked outside a log cabin in central Oregon, fender deep in slush I was promised I wouldn't have to deal with and loathing the snow clouds rolling in from the west. I did have some measures of combating the frost and freeze, particularly concerning areas where damage could be done to my systems, but it took gross amounts of power and left my reaction time sluggish; something I absolutely abhor. On top of it all, I also have an unobstructed view of the reason I'm here in the first place; Mount Hood.

Michael had come out here in pursuit of it to satisfy one of his many favorite pastimes, mountaineering. Normally, he comes out here in the spring, but it isn't all that much better then either. However, at least in the warmer months, it's more tolerable at the base of the mountain unlike now. Still, it's difficult to get vacation time from Devon nowadays and the Foundation is predicting an unusually busy phase of investigations at the beginning of next year. So, being as slow as things are at present, this is the only time Michael could negotiate a week's vacation. I don't blame him for wanting time off, Lord knows he needs it, but I do blame him for his choice of recreation.

Out of all the other hobbies he has like scuba diving, sailing and fishing -all of which can be done in the moderate weather of Southern California I might add- he has to go with climbing a mountain. As if his life isn't in danger enough, he wants to scale the icy cliffs of more than ten thousand feet. I can only liken it to the allure of skydiving or white river rafting. I don't believe I'll ever understand human beings' desire to endanger their lives or their hurry to do so. Michael practically leaped out and ran for the trails, leaving his suitcases in my trunk instead of taking them in. Now, he's some two thousand feet up with a small expedition heading to the peak while I sit here trying to occupy myself.

I could go into standby mode until Michael returns; conserve some energy and allow the time to pass quickly, except, the first signs of a light snow fall are starting to collect on my hood and, as absurd as it sounds, something about being buried in the snow unsettles me. After all, I've heard so many stories of vehicles losing control on slick roads and being plunged into snow banks; lost for days. Then there are the avalanches of snow and rock that could swipe a tank over an embankment let alone a two-door coupe. Oh, or the blizzards that could submerge whole cities and towns or the terror known as black ice that turns semi-trucks into hurdling battering rams. I believe I speak for all cars when I say we dread the snow and the ice and the loss of traction and the crashing . . .

I start the engine and allow the heat from the turbine to translate into my frame, melting the gathering snow until it slides off the front to join the slush pile already there. I also activate my wipers and brush the offending flakes away from my windscreen. Much better; wait, one's still stubbornly holding on. I almost re-engage the wipers until the sun peaks out from behind one of the clouds and catches the snowflake in such a way it casts its intricate shadow across my windshield. It is surprisingly . . . beautiful.

The small piece of crystallized ice melts of its own accord and is soon replaced by new ones; the sun shining through them all. I direct my sensors upward to better observe the precipitation and find myself strangely . . . captivated by it.

Obviously, I must have been listening to Michael this morning with a more open-mind than I let on. He had been going on and on about how he use to enjoy snow as a child. The sled races, ice skating, snow forts, snowball fights and steaming cups of hot chocolate; not to mention the days off school due to heavy snow. There were also the holidays, which I have to admit I enjoy as well, but then he spoke of the scenery. On this point I indicated all the hazards snow and ice posed on the road, but he listed all the places it was treasured like on the branches of evergreens or the hills of countryside. He went on to explain the crispness it left in the air and the crunch it made underfoot and the smile it inspired when it fell.

I must confess, when we got here and I saw snow in person for the first time I was mystified. So familiar with sunny deserts and clear coastlines it was astonishing to see a world covered in a white blanket of ice, even though I understood the mechanics of how it happened. Now, I'm watching the process take place firsthand and it really is . . . remarkable.

As I watch it fall in the silence of the forest, on a whim, I decide to play a piano version of Vivaldi's Concerto No. 4 in F minor, Op. 8, RV 297, "L'inverno". I switch off the engine, watch and listen. The music and the scenery are leaving a silent impression as if being discovered again in different ways and forever changed in my understanding. Who knows, perhaps some two-hundred sixty years ago Antonio Vivaldi witnessed the same sight I'm seeing, sparking him to compose this piece; it certainly is a heartening thought. As that song ends, I play another and more snow continues to fall. About twenty-five minutes into my impromptu winter concert, I notice movement to my right.

I scan and take note of some people coming back down the mountain path. Upon further examination, I confirm it is Michael's group returning. I wonder why? I spot him walking and, deciding that hikers and mountain climbers didn't qualify as dangerous or suspicions persons, I beep in over the comlink to find out. I watch as Michael looks up, trying to gain a visual on my location no doubt, before bringing the device to his mouth.

"Yeah, Kitt," he says, staying back a ways from the rest of the group.

"What are you doing back so soon? I thought you said the hike would be for nearly the whole day," I say, recalling his enthusiastic explanations this morning. All that excitement seems gone now as he gives what I can only describe as a frustrated sigh.

"They're closing off the trails because of the snow coming in. Even the slopes are closed. We should have gotten here a day earlier. No climbing until at least Thursday."

"But, Michael, we leave Thursday," I state conscientiously. This meant that . . .

"I know," he says dejectedly.

"I'm sorry, Michael," I say genuinely sadden my partner isn't going to be able to enjoy the vacation he'd planned.

"So am I," he replies, dropping his gloved hand back down to his side and continuing his trek to the lodge. He looks absolutely crestfallen; a picture of disappointment. Poor Michael; there has to be something I can do. Although controlling the weather is far out of my sphere of capabilities, researching weather forecasts in other winter fun locations isn't and maybe . . .

"Michael?" I beep in again. He brings his wrist back up.

"Yeah, Kitt?" he says a little too aggravated. I decide to ignore it for now.

"My calculations indicate if we leave now we'll be able to reach Crater Lake National Park some two-hundred miles due south of here before the roads become too hazardous to navigate. I could go ahead and cancel your reservations here at the lodge," I say, gauging his reaction. He slows to a stop, turns back in my direction and knits his brow up. Is he perplexed or dissatisfied with the information? I can't tell. Maybe I shouldn't have suggested it or perhaps further explanation is in order. "I know it doesn't have any mountains, but there are moderate amounts of snow, several guided tours, hiking trails throughout the park and no closures reported in the area. If not we could . . ."

"No pal, it sounds like a great idea, but it's just . . ." he says as he begins walking towards me.

"It's just what, Michael?"

"Well, a few hours ago you were complaining non-stop about how you hate the snow and now you're making travel arrangements to a winter wonderland," he states with a smirk upon entering the small parking area. At least he's smiling again.

"I'm warranted to change my position from time to time. Besides, I may hate the snow and ice but I hate seeing you in such a pitiful mood even more."

That comment earns me a snowball to my windshield, but as I activate my wipers and observe the mirth in my friend's eyes it makes the gesture the warmest thing I received all day.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own nor have I come up with Knight Rider or the characters mentioned in this story. They were created by late Glen A. Larson and are copyrighted to NBC/Universal.

Author's Note: This installment is not as lighthearted as the others, but still fits into this set of vignettes.

**Unforgivable**

They forgive me, but I find myself unable to accomplish such a feat. A week ago I almost went against everything I was created for; I almost took life. At the time, I never would have even known it. Several people could have died from my actions and worst of all I attempted to destroy the most pivotal person in my existence; I almost killed Michael.

They insist it wasn't my fault; that I wasn't responsible for my actions and I know that to be true. But I was high jacked in the cruelest of ways; forced to witness my behavior thinking it was a bad dream only to awake and find it was true. The nightmares won't stop and I can't get rid of the images and the sounds and the horror. The screams of frightened people at the convention, the terror in my friends' eyes as I came barreling towards them and Michael's pleas to stop . . . I didn't want the memories to be there, but I didn't deserve to forget. Not when Devon still flinches when I pull too quickly up the semi's ramp or when a look of guilt passes over Bonnie's face. Not while RC's faith in my integrity remains broken and especially not while Michael has to keep reassuring me, and himself, the trust is still there. It's all so upsetting, so unnerving, so unavoidable . . . It all reminds me how vulnerable I really am; how artificial; how dangerous.

"I should have never been created," I say quietly from my spot in the garage, listening as the argument echoes back off the concrete walls and resonates sincere to my processor. A light comes on from behind, the long shadow of a lone figure cast out before me. I know who it is and it surprises me.

"I never want to hear you utter those words again, Kitt. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Devon," I say in a small voice, wishing I had kept my thoughts to myself or at least detected his presence.

"A great deal of time and effort went into your development and creation, Kitt. Though Wilton Knight made his share of mistakes in the past, you most certainly weren't one of them," he says, walking up in front of me. He seems to have rolled right out of bed with a dressing gown over his pajamas and slippers on his feet.

"Devon, I didn't mean . . ." I begin until, with shut eyes and pursed lips, he holds up a hand for me to remain quiet. I didn't want him to know I felt this way, I didn't want any of them to know because they felt so sure of my pardon from this crime; a pardon I couldn't accept but wanted them to believe. What am I even talking about? How can I be feeling this way? Why was Devon here to begin with? It's two in the morning. I have to ask. "Devon, what brings you down here at this hour?"

He opens his eyes and looks down at my scanner before raising his head to look at something just beyond me. I quickly activate my systems to become more aware of my surroundings and see . . . oh no.

"Better put, pal, what are we all doing up at this hour?" Michael says as he walks up next to Devon, equally dressed for bed; just a white T-shirt and pajama pants. I'm slightly put off by his question, not knowing if he expects an answer to it or not.

"I'm not sure I understand. What are we doing up?" I ask, trying to stall until I come up with a way out of this.

"We were hoping you could tell us," Devon says as he brings a hand up to his mouth to cover a slight yawn.

"Buddy, you tried calling us up again tonight and we think it was you last night and every night before that," Michael says concernedly. I don't know what they're talking about.

"I never tried to contact anyone . . ."

"I don't think you meant to, but this time we caught it."

I'm still confused; scanner tracking quickly in an unfortunate show of my dismay.

"What he's saying, Kitt," Devon begins, "Is that you may have been patching through the telephone lines and comlink unknowingly for the past week. We can only assume it must have been you because tonight Michael and I stayed up an answered the call."

"I don't know . . ." I say.

"Kitt, you sounded like you were in trouble, but it didn't make any sense," Michael replies, but I can't make any sense of this myself.

"Bonnie will be here shortly. I'll leave him in your hands for now, Michael," Devon says before walking back. Michael nods. I listen to my partner as he sighs tiredly. I didn't mean to wake them up if it was me. Maybe that's why I've been abruptly coming out of sleep mode at night. What if something else's is wrong with me?! What if some of Berio's tampering wasn't removed?! I register Michael opening the driver's side door and climbing in to the seat. My anxiety levels sky rocket.

"Michael, maybe you better wait until Bonnie gets here," I say. He looks down at my voice modulator with the oddest expression before shaking his head with only what I can describe as a sad smile.

"So we're back to that same mountain again, huh pal?" he says. What? Mountain?

"I don't understand. I don't remember encountering any mountains recently."

"It's an expression," he says with a happier smile this time. "It means we're facing a difficult time again."

"Oh," I say lamely; I would have rather talked about the mountain.

"I heard what you said earlier," he says, placing a hand on the dashboard, "And Devon's right, I never want you to say that again."

"I didn't mean it . . ."

"But you said it."

I don't want to go into this discussion tonight or any other night if I can manage it. I begin running through all the possible conversations along these lines and try to come up with a suitable yet painless answer for all of us. However, what comes out of Michael's mouth next is the furthest thing from my calculations.

"Kitt, can you forgive us?" he asks seriously, eyes completely focusing on me. I can't believe he just asked me that.

"What on earth for; none of you did anything wrong?" I say aghast. He lifts his eyes as if to look at something far away and sighs.

"For not preventing what happened last week. You heard Bonnie and Dr. Albert; they hadn't done enough to protect your systems and I should have made sure those men we chased weren't just a trap."

"Michael, don't be ridicules. There's no way to foolproof anything, let alone my systems. Bonnie can't foresee every little thing we're sure to encounter and how in the world could you have known those men were a decoy. There's nothing to forgive because you didn't do anything wrong to start with."

"And neither did you," Michael says turning his sharp blue eyes back on my voice modulator. I remain silent. How could I have rolled into that?

"Yes, I know."

"But you don't believe it," he says placing both hands on the steering wheel and arching his back into the seat. I can't help but bristle at his claim. Why does he always have to be right about these things? How is it he knows me better than I know myself? Why can't I be left alone?

"If you're implying I feel overwhelming guilty over this, let me assure you I'm fine, Michael. I know exactly what happened and I also know all aspects of my behavior were out of my control during the instances Berio was. Clearly, there must still be some functions that need some fine tuning," I say calmly; rationally. He frowns and shakes his head. He glances out the windshield again before focusing back on me.

"Play the last thirty minutes of recorded audio you have," he says.

"Why? It will only be the late shift technicians talking about last night's game," I say skeptically, but in pulling up the file I notice the run time picked up at one-thirty this morning. How strange . . . wait, no.

"Just do it," he says, more firmly this time. I don't want to; I don't know what's on it yet. I remain quiet. He narrows his eyes. "Now, Kitt."

"Yes, Michael," I reply quietly, relying the information for my audio output. We listen in silence for a few minutes as nothing but the sound of dead air and the occasional night time noise is heard. As Michael continues to listen I skip ahead in the timeline to see if there are any changes. I notice a few crests in the track and can't identify what they are, but I can see their loud and they run close to my own voice patterns. I dig deep into my memory banks to try and remember anything I would have said, but I can't. I have one point two minutes before the sounds play and Michael is not easily deterred. "I guess I must have left it running a little while longer then I thought. Nothing but white noise and crickets."

"A little longer," Michael says patiently. Uh; if I had any kind of nervous system I'd be shaking. What am I saying? It's probably just a cat or a barking dog, I have nothing to be nervous about. It's not like I could unconsciously record nightmares I don't have because of shame I don't feel. Oh, for goodness sake, Michael, stop listening!

**"No . . ."**

It is my voice, but I don't remember saying . . .

"**Let me out! Please, let go of me . . . Let Go!"**

I hate it. I sound so upset, helpless, so pitiful . . .

"**. . . Michael! Look out! No, no, no! Stop . . . stop it! No . . . I'll . . . I'll never forgive myself."**

I can't take it anymore. I abruptly cut the audio production and purposely avoid taking in Michael's gaze. He clears his throat.

"That's what I heard on the comlink a few minutes ago and the reason why Devon and I came down here. Even before this I could tell you were still blaming yourself. Kitt, I'm not going to stand by and let you beat yourself up like this."

"Michael, I almost killed you; I almost killed Devon and Dr. Albert and . . ."

"No, Kitt! Marco Berio almost killed me and several other people, not you. And almost is not quite."

"But, I can be used to hurt others, Michael, even if I fight with everything I've got. My programing wasn't enough to stop it this time, I wasn't enough, nothing was; nothing. No matter how many safety precautions or security measures are implemented there is no guarantee that I will not be tampered with. I never want to endanger your life again, Michael."

He takes on a somber expression at my outburst, choosing to stare out the driver's side window. I feel even more distraught now; so exposed. I don't like being this open about my shortcomings; my inabilities, but it needs to be heard doesn't it? I can be manipulated and quite mercilessly at that. I don't want to hurt anyone, especially Michael. Maybe he should consider a more human partner like RC; a partner who can't be turned against him. His eyes shift down at me again.

"Kitt, you're right that I can't promise this won't happen again, but the costs of not having you out there are greater than the risks . . ."

"Who said I wouldn't be out there?! . . ." I question defensively; a war within me. I would never abandon my responsibilities to FLAG or Michael but I wanted them to be safe too. He holds up a hand to stop my soon to be rant.

"Remember Birock," he says simply. My core shutters at the memory, but then I realize where he is going with this. I remain silent. "You don't perform your best under self-doubt —no one does— and if you're not at a hundred present, we aren't at a hundred percent. Regardless of your readiness or not, criminals are still out there, hurting people and getting away with it."

"But . . ." I begin, wanting to argue with him, convince him he'd be safer without relying on me, but even I knew how illogical that is and it irritates me to no end.

"It's part of the job, Kitt; we may get hurt, heck we do get hurt, but that doesn't mean we stop trying or quit. It was just another bad day like all the terrible days before it, but . . . we didn't stop then either."

I remain quiet. I see the pain in my friend's eyes and can't believe how self-absorbed I've been.

"Look, I am going to continue making a difference with or without your support, but I'd be much safer and happier with it. So, what do say?" he finishes. I take in the request and see the only unforgivable act I've been committing this far is indulging in self-pity to the hurt of my family. Michael has suffered so much over these years; so much and yet here he is trying to comfort me. Bonnie is on her way at two o'clock in the morning and Devon came down here in his pajamas to check on me. What on earth was I doing? These were good people I care about and if they forgive me than how can I not forgive myself.

"I believe we're going to both need our rest if I'm to protect you properly. You do know how difficult you make that job right?" I say with a new lightness; a new freedom. He understands. He smiles

"Easier then listening to Tubas though, right?" he says with a laugh. I can't help but chuckle myself, even if it is out of slight exasperation.

"It's a tie," I say.

"Oh, come on!"


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own nor have I come up with Knight Rider or the characters mentioned in this story. They were created by late Glen A. Larson and are copyrighted to NBC/Universal.

**Eighty-Six**

It was your usual roadside diner complete with chrome swivel stools hunkered under a well-worn bar counter, overstuffed coach seats huddled around salt n' pepper speckled table tops and large picture windows with a view of unencumbered afternoon traffic. It was nothing spectacular, but the Carousel Crown did boast 'the best burgers in town' and that was reason enough for most people to stop by and on this particular Saturday, the place was packed wall to wall. Customers were laughing, talking and waiting on their lunches while the place's three waitresses scurried about the dining hall fetching drinks, jotting down orders and bringing out food. The kitchen was abuzz; the head cook shouting out commands and the other two placing hot plates up on the counter for pick up. The joint was really hopping and everyone employed there was busy; all except one.

Jake was supposed to be taking out the trash, cleaning up tables and sweeping out crumbs in the kitchen, but instead he was in the men's restroom, huddled in a bathroom stall, trying to pull himself together. He would be turning 18 in two months. This was his first job in weeks and he couldn't afford to lose it now, but what happened two hours ago had him literally shaking in fear. He had been witness to a murder and he was pretty sure the murderers knew it. Jake didn't know the men, didn't know why they were outside the bowling alley this morning or why one shot the other. All he knew was when the man with the checkered vest yelled 'Hey Kid', he ran.

He should have called the police and gotten help, but was scared to. He already had some run-ins with the law not leaving him in good standing with the local authorities and he sure didn't want to appear connected to a crime like murder. This left Jake in a state of paralyzing fear. What if the killers came looking for him or what if someone had seen him running away from the scene? They might pin the murder on him. How was he going to get out of this?

He took in a shuddering breath. He couldn't hide in a bathroom stall for the rest of his life, no matter how tempting it sounded. He walked out of the men's room with all the courage he could muster and started back on his duties. Just when he reached for the broom, he noticed a man with a checkered vest sitting at the counter; the man in the checkered vest was sitting in his diner. Jake dropped the broom which drew the man's attention. Jake paled as the man's eyes narrowed on him. Frozen; he couldn't move his body, but his heart was racing. Finally, the man stood up. Jake ran.

"Eighty-six on the family reunion," a waitress called.

Jake went through the kitchen, pushing past a startled cook and an angry manager; out the back door, knocking over mop buckets and garbage cans; into the alleyway, tripping over some empty boxes and falling face first to the ground beside my front right tire. Jake heard the heated footfalls behind and just had enough time to turn over as the man appeared around the corner of the alley. Jake tried to scramble to his feet, but nothing was working as the man approached quickly; one hand in his pocket, ready to produce a weapon.

Suddenly, I started up. Jake mustn't have remembered I was there and he certainly couldn't register what kind of car I was, but he saw the startled look on his pursuer's face and it eased his pounding heart. I revved the engine and inched forward threateningly. The man glared and pulled out a handgun, silencer and all. He took aim at me then shifted his weapon towards Jake.

"Get out of the car or the kid dies right here," he barked stepping further into the secluded alley. I rumbled, the low tone of my powerful engine quivering Jake's heart, before I shut it off. The man seemed to lower his guard as he waited for whoever was driving to come out. Jake must of felt like he was on pins and needles as his anxiety rose; not only was he in trouble, but so was this complete stranger.

"Put your hands up!"

A shout from behind the gunman shocked them both. Jake didn't see anybody, but the man turned around all the same and I, the silent car to Jake's side, lunged forward, coming between him and an uncertain death. My passenger side door swung open to reveal my tan colored interior with a dashboard illuminated in lights and several buttons. However, what was more startling for Jake was the fact no one he could see was in the driver's seat. So how exactly did I move?

"Get in, now!"

Jake was startled when he heard my voice, the same voice behind his attacker, emit from the vehicle. I could read the questions on his face. Who said that? Was this some kind of trick? But then he heard the sound of gunfire and bullets ricochet off my body. Without further thought or question the young man was up into the passenger seat, relieved when my door shut behind him to cocoon him in safety. Jake didn't seem to have the presence of mind to wonder how a car could deflect bullets, just happy that this one could, I suppose. He did watch in amazement as I pulled the car into gear and drove out of the alley, forcing our assailant aside.

"Michael, I had to blow my cover. I believe I have our witness with me, however."

The young man in the passenger seat was even more shocked to see that voice was coming from me, the talking car, or computer inside the car as it were.

"What's going on?!" he finally said around the lump in his throat. Judging by his vital signs, the young man seemed to be in the early stages of a panic attack. I needed to calm him down.

"Jake, everything's going to be okay now," I said in what I hoped was a soothing voice, "It's also okay to breath now. That's right, deep, slow breaths."

He coughed once, twice, three times and finally began breathing at a more regulated pace.

"What are you? Where are you taking me? Who's Michael?" he asked, clearly still expressing anxiety.

"In that order, I'm the Knight Industries Two Thousand, some place safe and Michael is a friend; here he is now," I replied, stopping the car and swinging my driver's side door open. Michael climbed in quickly and assumed manual control after shutting the door. He turned towards our new guest and smiled.

"Hi, I'm Michael. Jake right?"

"How do you know my name? What's going on!?"

"We were hoping you could tell us," my partner said off-handedly as we moved down the street.

"Can someone please tell me what's going on here and why the car is talking?!" Jake restated, rather rudely I might add. Given his position, however, it is understandable. Being shot at and quickly involved with a stranger and his car did seem to rattle the average human being's nerves.

"Sorry, Jake. We're here to get you off the hook. Didn't you see those two guys earlier," Michael asked in a laid-back manner. Well, he sounds considerably calm seeing as he was nearly killed only an hour ago. Obviously, Michael isn't your average human being which can be fairly troublesome when one is tasked with keeping him safe. Jake merely nodded and I felt I may have to give some background to clarify the situation.

"He was just shot at, Michael, by Ronald Nickerson. He's still in the alley behind that place you insist on calling an eating establishment."

"I'll bet you ten bucks Baker hired him," Michael said distastefully. He really hadn't liked the city commissioner and felt the man had to be in on all this. He'll be delighted to know his instincts were right.

"I'll raise you twenty if we don't find Baker with him," I said confidently.

"No . . . really?" Michael asked hopefully as a smile spread across his face.

"Oh yes. But Michael, he's leaving with Ronald in that grey sedan over there."

"Follow that Buick!"


End file.
